


Entrée

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Series: pas de deux [1]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games), Uncharted 4 - Fandom
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Suit Shopping, no not that, rafe's fine he's just got something in his throat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: Entrée: A grandpas de deuxusually begins with anentrée(literally "entrance"). This serves as a prelude during which the dancers first appear on the stage and, typically with great pageantry, acknowledge each other and position themselves near each other in preparation for the subsequentadagio.Or, Sam and Rafe go suit shopping. Sam's gotta look sharp if he's going to pretend to be Rafe's boyfriend, right? There's no way this could backfire.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a Fake Dating AU that you can find either in this collection or variously on Tumblr at [videogamesandbutts](http://videogamesandbutts.tumblr.com/tagged/the-fake-dating-au), [ughrafe](http://ughrafe.tumblr.com/tagged/fake-dating-au), [jilldrawblog](https://jilldrawblog.tumblr.com/tagged/fake-dating-au), or [thirtysixsavefiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com/tagged/fake-dating-au). This work takes place before [a fierce kiss, possessive and faithful](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/notcompletelyfake/works/9757463).
> 
> Thank you [Jill](http://jilldrawblog.tumblr.com) for my favorite Rafe Adler line to date. See if you can spot it.

“You don’t really have to come with me, you know.” Sam sounds put out, but tough shit. He’s following Rafe - reluctantly, hands stuffed in the pockets of that awful jean jacket, but he’s following, and that’s the important part - as Rafe winds his way through the afternoon crowds downtown.

“You’re the one who asked me if tuxedos came in green. You brought this on yourself.” Rafe pulls open the door to a storefront discreetly marked _Wilson and Sons_ . “Which, for the record, they do, but so help me Samuel, if you even _think_ about it -”

“All right, all right.” Sam catches the door over Rafe’s head to let him go first. “For the _record_ , that was a joke.”

“It wasn’t funny.” Rafe takes off his sunglasses and hangs them in his shirt. “Clearly you can’t be trusted with menswear.” Sam grumbles something in response but it’s probably best that Rafe doesn’t hear what it is, busy putting on his best business smile for Mr. Wilson himself, who is hurrying over to greet them.

“Mr. Adler! Always a pleasure.” His grip is just as firm as Rafe remembers it. “What can I do for you? The Gallagher Ball is coming up, are you looking for a statement piece? I’m thinking something in white and black -”

“You know, that sounds wonderful, but we’re really here for him.” Rafe jerks his thumb over his shoulder, and Mr. Wilson shifts his laser-focus to an increasingly uncomfortable-looking Sam.

“Very good, very good,” Mr. Wilson says approvingly. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. …?”

“Drake.” Sam squares his shoulders and takes Mr. Wilson’s offered hand. “Sam Drake. Call me Sam.”

“Very good, Mr. Drake. And what is the occasion?”

“The Cavendish Banquet. We’re going. Together. He’s my boyfriend,” Rafe clarifies. Sam coughs and Rafe resists the urge to kick him. Not Rafe’s smoothest delivery ever, but he’ll get better with practice, surely. Might as well get this show on the road, right?

Mr. Wilson raises his eyebrows, then claps his hands together and beams. “Wonderful. If you’ll follow me?” He turns and heads toward the back of the store, where the fitting rooms are, and Rafe steps aside, gesturing for Sam to follow. Sam frowns.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Yes.”

“I could get something off the rack somewhere -”

“Samuel.”

Sam sighs and raises his hands in surrender. “Fine. But you’re buying.”

Sam’s terrible at getting fitted, which Rafe supposes he should have expected, given his propensity for worn v-necks and jeans. He’s reluctant to strip down to be measured, and fidgety on the stand until Mr. Wilson very calmly threatens to stick him with a fitting pin if he moves one more time. When Mr. Wilson’s assistant - Rafe’s already forgotten his name - asks if Sam has a preference for single- or double-breasted, Rafe has a terrible premonition and snaps out “single,” before Sam can open his mouth. The crestfallen look on Sam’s face tells Rafe he was right, but Sam can save his terrible jokes for somewhere he won’t embarrass Rafe in public. Once he’s assured Mr. Wilson has things well in hand, Rafe pulls out his phone and only answers Sam’s increasingly feeble complaints with a disinterested “hm.” He’s in the process of setting up a direct deposit to Sam’s bank account - can’t forget that part of the arrangement - when Sam’s voice breaks through his preoccupation.

“No, I really think it’s - Rafe, tell him this doesn’t fit.” Sam sounds exasperated, and when Rafe looks up he has to blink a few times before he really takes in what he’s seeing.

Sam’s standing barefoot on the fitting platform, slim-fitting dress slacks pinned up his - were Sam’s legs always this long? Rafe can’t remember. What really draws the eye, though, is the way the starched white shirt just barely closes over Sam’s chest, and Rafe _definitely_ doesn’t remember Sam being that broad in the shoulders. Sam swings his arms experimentally, and the material pulls obscenely tights across his chest and biceps.

Rafe’s mouth is suddenly dry. Weird. It must be hot under these lights.

“Yeah, let's -” Rafe clears his throat and tries again. “Let’s go a size up.”

“ _Thank you_ .” He thinks Sam shoots him a grateful look, but Rafe’s gaze is still caught somewhere around Sam’s collarbone. Then Sam starts unbuttoning the shirt and suddenly Rafe can see a lot _more_ of Sam’s chest. Rafe should probably look away now. He catches Mr. Wilson watching him with a knowing smile, and resists the urge to flip the old guy off. Rafe’s supposed to be presenting a love-struck front to the world. Besides, word would get back to his mother.

Rafe clears his throat again. Jesus, he’s dehydrated. Whose dick does he have to suck to get a glass of water around here?

Sam chokes and Rafe tears his eyes away from Sam’s shoulders to find Sam staring at him and Mr. Wilson and his assistant studiously looking away.

Rafe closes his eyes. “I said that out loud, didn’t I.”

“You sure did.” Sam sounds like he’s getting far too much enjoyment out of this, so Rafe opens his eyes to tell Samuel Drake where he can shove his commentary, only to see Sam lean over to a side table with a carefully arranged block of bottled water. Sam swipes one and tosses it over, and Rafe catches it automatically.

“Here. You can make it up to me later, darling.” Sam winks at him with a look that says he knows _exactly_ how much Rafe wants to strangle him right now. Rafe smiles through gritted teeth, ignoring the muffled cough from Mr. Wilson’s assistant.

“Thank you, _darling_.” Rafe hopes the emphasis will convey to Sam just how much trouble he’s in, but Sam just grins back, unrepentant. Rafe leans back in his chair, uncapping the bottle, and the first mouthful of cool water seems to clear his head a little.

“You know, while we’re here, why don’t we get you fitted for a three-piece as well?” Rafe smiles as Sam’s eyes go wide. “Will that be a problem, Mr. Wilson?”

Sam glares as Mr. Wilson murmurs “Of course not, Mr. Adler,” and Rafe toasts him with his water bottle.

Revenge is short-lived, however, when soon Sam is standing in front of him in a fitting tuxedo, fussing nervously with the cuffs of the jacket. Even with the pins and tucks, it’s clear that the lines of the suit flatter his frame. Mr. Wilson knows his business, Rafe thinks with a hint of despair. He’s seen Sam’s tattoo dozens of times, but somehow when it’s partially covered Rafe’s fingers itch to loosen those top few buttons and pull that collar down. It doesn’t make any sense. He has to tear his gaze away from Sam’s neck, but that hardly helps because now he’s looking at Sam’s _face_ , and Sam’s watching him with an evaluative look.

“So? How do I look?” Sam shakes his sleeves out, rolling his shoulders, but he keeps his eyes firmly on Rafe’s face while he does it.

Rafe rolls his eyes and hopes that the heat he can feel on his cheeks is just from the overhead lights. “You look awful. A complete wreck. You’re the one standing in front of three mirrors, you tell me.”

“Hmmm.” Sam turns, adjusting the lay of the jacket as he inspects himself in the three-way mirror. Rafe swallows as Sam shifts - Mr. Wilson might be _too_ good at his job, because those pants really cling to Sam’s ass, and since when did Rafe care _at all_ about Samuel Drake’s ass?

Sam meets Rafe’s eyes in the mirror and grins slowly. “Yeah, I think this’ll work just fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [ThirtySixSaveFiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


End file.
